


i. a thousand armies couldn't keep me out

by QueenWithABeeThrone



Series: winter is coming (ws!robb au) [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Aftermath of brainwashing, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Brainwashing, Canon-Typical Violence, Future Fic, Multi, Resurrection, Winter Soldier AU, complete with the metal arm, gratuitous references to winter, hey you know what's a good idea? more stark trauma, in which theon is sam and the starks are steve and robb is bucky, look if you saw CATWS then you know what to expect
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-23
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-01-26 05:43:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1676876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenWithABeeThrone/pseuds/QueenWithABeeThrone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"--hear about the Whispering Woods?"</i> </p><p><i>"Gods, yes--is it true? Did--did </i>he<i> do it?"</i></p><p>
  <i>"Don't see why it couldn't have been. Wolves couldn't have done it, too few outlaws to take on a third of an army like that, and I hear the survivors talked about a man with an arm made out of Valyrian steel."</i>
</p><p>(AU where Robb Stark is the Winter Soldier, part one.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. PROLOGUE (i've come to burn your kingdom down)

**Author's Note:**

> I made fanmixes! [This is part one](http://8tracks.com/winchesterlystarks/winter-is-coming-i-a-thousand-armies-couldn-t-keep-me-out), [this is part two.](http://8tracks.com/winchesterlystarks/winter-is-coming-ii-i-d-trade-all-my-tomorrows-for-just-one-yesterday)
> 
>  **Warnings for the following:** Dehumanization, non-consensual amputation and body part replacement, some medical and body horror, brainwashing, a healthy helping of PTSD, and a lot of other triggers that you'd probably expect if you watched _Captain America: The Winter Soldier_. And some descriptions of corpses and gore, because this is Westeros. And book spoilers.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Faithy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/varooooom) for the beta job!

It was a dark, cold night, was the thing. No one really expected attack, not in the Whispering Woods--from hungry wolves, probably, and there was always the possibility of bandits and outlaws and broken men, but they were a sizeable group, and most were hardened fighters besides. Garreth himself had fought in and lived through the War of the Five Kings, and what had almost become the second Dance of the Dragons, and five years of this War for the Dawn so far. He didn't have any illusions that he'd live through this one, he'd seen too many good men die and seen some come back with eyes that glowed an eerie blue, but a tiny little part of him hoped anyway.

"Thinkin' of y'girl now, 'Reth?" Harwald Flowers slurred, and Garreth could smell his breath, Flowers was so close to him. It stank of wine and meat and gods knew what else, and for the nth time in his life Garreth wondered how he'd become friends with Harry. The man was a good fellow to have at your back, but he got drunk so often it was a wonder he didn't have a headache all the time.

"I don't have a girl, Harry," Garreth sighed. "Could you stop getting drunk, for once? You're heavy."

"No'm'not," Harwald protested blearily, leaning heavily against Garreth. "Set me down f'r a bit, 'Reth, the world's spinnin' a little t'much."

"No, you're just very drunk." He set Harwald down against a tree, and said, "I'm going to go piss. Stay there and _don't move._ "

Harwald nodded, and grinned pathetically up at him. "Sure," he said. "'M'gonna stay right here. Not goin' 'nywhere."

"Good." Garreth walked off, undid his breeches, and pissed against a tree, letting out a breath of relief. Tomorrow he'd have to wake up early, help with the horses and the food if they wanted to get out of the woods before the week was out. He wondered if he could make some time to talk with the blacksmith about the sword he'd broken a week or so ago, he didn't want to be caught with only a chipped knife to defend himself if he could help it.

He was doing up his breeches again when he heard Harwald scream. It was cut off almost immediately, and Garreth felt a chill down his spine. Were they being ambushed? But that was impossible, the Others hadn't gone south of the Wall yet, had they? He swore, and drew his chipped knife out as he ran.

He skidded to a stop.

Harwald stared at nothing, laughing green eyes glazed over. His mouth was open in a silent scream, and his throat had been opened, giving him a red smile.

Garreth looked around. No one was there, but the cold had somehow seeped into his bones, the way winter had crept over the land at the start of this war. He took a step forward, then knelt down at his friend's corpse.

"Harry?" he whispered, hardly daring to believe it. "You said you wouldn't go anywhere." _Seven save us,_ he thought, almost dazed from the shock of seeing Harwald's corpse. He needed to raise a cry. He _had_ to, whoever killed Harwald was probably still around. _Outlaws?_ he wondered. No, it couldn't be an outlaw, that damn bag of coins Harwald always carried around was still hanging from his belt, and it hadn't been disturbed. And the gash in his throat was far too precise to be from a wolf's claws.

He heard a crunch of twigs, and whipped around, knife held at the ready.

He paled.

There was a masked man clad all in black, long red hair tied back, spinning a sword in his left hand. But that wasn't the strangest thing about him--it was his hand that drew Garreth's attention. Whatever it was made out of, it certainly wasn't flesh and blood. It seemed to ripple in the light, seemed almost red, like Valyrian steel. He tilted his head at Garreth, eyes landing on the knife and narrowing. The sword spun, then came to a stop, the sharp end pointing towards Garreth. The man didn't say a word, and if it wasn't for the fact that he didn't have the icy blue tint to his skin (what little of it was exposed), Garreth could've taken him for a wight. His eyes were bright blue, the kind made for light and laughter, but instead they were dead and lifeless.

And trained on Garreth.

"Who are you?" Garreth managed to say.

The man didn't say a word. He stepped forward, casual as anything, and Garreth raised his knife to defend himself, and knew it wouldn't be enough.

His last thought, as the man raised his sword and slashed it down towards him, cutting through the knife and flesh and bone, cutting off Garreth's warning shriek, was, _Mother have mercy._


	2. JON | ARYA

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"One kept saying that winter itself had come on them, and the other told me it was the work of one man with an arm made out of_ Valyrian steel. _" Lannister snorted. "The_ Winter Soldier _did it, according to them."_

_My gods,_ was the first thing that came to Jon's mind, as he walked into what had once been a camp for a third of their forces. Once.

"Seven save us," Brienne of Tarth said, as she surveyed the scene. "Who would do this?"

Jon wondered as well. This wasn't even a battle--the men had just been passing through the woods on their way to Riverrun, the most any of them must have expected was an attack by outlaws or hungry wolves. This was a massacre, and he had a hard time believing that _anyone_ could've done this. These were battle-hardened men, who'd fought in at least one battle in the War for the Dawn and come out alive, and some had even been in the War of the Five Kings.

And now their corpses littered the Whispering Woods.

"That's what I hope to find out," Jaime Lannister said. He'd gone tense the moment they set foot in the camp, and hadn't said a single word as the three of them picked through corpses and debris. "The survivors are all being treated, and once they're coherent enough, I mean to get their tales. Hopefully they'll make better sense than the last two I asked."

"What did you get out of them?" Jon asked him.

Jaime shrugged, and anywhere else it would've been lazy and easy, a casual smirk on his face. Here, it was tense, and he looked as serious as he was ever like to get. A little shaken, too--the only time any of them saw carnage like this, it was after fighting off a horde of Others at the Wall. "One kept saying that winter itself had come on them, and the other told me it was the work of one man with an arm made out of _Valyrian steel._ " He snorted. "The _Winter Soldier_ did it, according to them."

"They saw something, I'm sure," Brienne said, "but they don't _know_ what it was. The Winter Soldier was the closest thing they could think of."

Jon stepped over a corpse wearing a red smile. "How many survived?"

"That are going to last through the night?" Lannister said. "Three hundred or so, maybe half that number, and it certainly won't make up for the men we lost." He sighed. "A pity gallant Garlan wasn't among the three hundred that survived."

Jon cursed, quietly. Garlan Tyrell had been a good leader, a brave man. He'd told Jon he was hoping to return to Highgarden, after the war was done, when he'd last seen the man. He deserved, at least, to have his ashes sent back to the Reach--Jon wasn't about to risk having to kill the man again. "We need to burn the corpses," he said. "I'm not taking any chances here. The Others might not have done this, but we can all agree that there are other ways to bring someone back." _Some more successful than others,_ he thought. "Get as many men as you can--yes, even the prisoners, even the people looting the corpses. Anyone who isn't sick or wounded or tending to the sick and wounded, in fact. Tell them to clear out enough space and find enough wood for enough pyres."

"How many pyres are we going to need?" Brienne asked, as Lannister walked away to shout orders at someone looting a corpse.

Jon let out a breath. "Too many," he said. "Far too many."

\--

_It's done, my lord._

_And Tyrell?_

_Dead._

_Good. Prepare him, erase this mission and start over. We'll need his skill again soon enough._

\--

"--hear about the Whispering Woods?"

"Gods, yes--is it true? Did--did _he_ do it?"

"Don't see why it couldn't have been. Wolves couldn't have done it, too few outlaws to take on a third of an army like that, and I hear the survivors talked about a man with an arm made out of Valyrian steel."

Arya took a sip of her ale and listened. What had happened at the Whispering Woods just three days past had been all anyone would talk about in the taverns, and while details varied with every telling (she found it very hard to believe that some of the bodies had been killed by _ice daggers_ ), everyone agreed on one thing: the man--not men, _man_ \--responsible for the massacre had been the Winter Soldier. She shivered to think about it, even now, four years after that night.

"The Winter Soldier? Here, ain't he just _talk_?"

"He's real. He's real as anything, I can tell you that--I saw him once with me own eyes!"

Arya resisted the urge to snort into her drink, as the so-called witness proceeded to describe a wizard that could summon shadows to fight for him, who sold his arm for the secrets to death and life. She herself had met the Winter Soldier, was the thing--he was no wizard, just a man. Or not, she supposed. The Soldier, from what she had seen that night, was wholly focused on his target, and anyone else in the way was an obstacle to be rid of as soon as possible. That reminder was still there on her skin, in the shape of a scar on her stomach.

She sipped at her ale once more, and listened.

"On your left," someone said, and she sighed and put her ale down.

"Are you _ever_ going to stop that?" she asked. Sansa smiled back at her from beneath her hood. "I forgot how annoying you could be," she huffed, with no real bite to it.

"Good, because I'm going to remind you as much as I can." The bartender walked by and gaped at them both, understanding dawning on his expression. Arya put a finger to her lips, and the man nodded, scurrying off to serve a mercenary down the bar.

"What are you doing in here, anyway?" Arya asked her. "I thought you'd be too busy treating with the dragon queen."

"Three days ago I was planning on doing that," Sansa answered. "But--well, you know what happened." She let out a breath. "Now we're trying to figure out just what could've taken so many good men by surprise. I thought I'd take your advice and come down here to listen to what the people were saying about it."

"So far it isn't much," Arya said. "They're saying the Winter Soldier did it, though."

Sansa's brows knit together. "Whoever it was, I'm certain they weren't alone," she said. "One man can't slaughter a third of an army by himself, even if he took them by surprise. Even if he's the Winter Soldier, if he exists."

 _He does,_ Arya wanted to say. _I have proof of that._

She said, "So what do you think it is?"

Sansa drummed her fingers on the counter. "I don't know," she said, at last. "I want to say Bolton men, really, but I don't have any proof. For all I know they could just be outlaws."

"I don't think it's outlaws," Arya said. "I should've killed Roose Bolton when I had the chance. Him and his bastard son, too." There was a little too much venom in her voice now, but she didn't _care_. Roose Bolton had killed Robb at the Twins, and Ramsay Snow had tried to kill Jon as well. "If you let me into their cells before they could break out--"

"Snow would've tried to hurt you," Sansa said. "If you remember, Jeyne took _your_ name when she was his bride."

Arya huffed out a breath. She remembered well enough, remembered Jeyne's wide eyes and her whimpered pleas. She suppressed a shudder at the thought, and hoped that Jeyne was doing better on Pyke. "If he tried to hurt me I would have stuck him with the pointy end of Needle," she said. "I've done it before."

"You'd have gotten hurt," Sansa said. "And don't start, I know you trained under the Faceless Men. Men like him, though--they don't _care_." She paused, and breathed in and out. "I know you could've killed him, but I was afraid that he might hurt you in some way before you did. I didn't want to live with that when I only just got you _back_." Her voice nearly broke on the last word, and she turned away, pulling her hood down over her face even further.

Arya stared at her, and looked back down at her ale. "I still say you should've let me kill them," she said, but it sounded hollow now. "Do you need a drink? I have some coin."

Sansa shook her head. "I want one," she said, wistfully, "but I need a clear head tomorrow. I have to meet with Stannis Baratheon and Margaery Tyrell, and they'll want to hear what we've found so far. Margaery especially, her brother Garlan died in the attack."

Margaery--Arya remembered her. She smiled often, and she and Sansa seemed almost as close as sisters, and Arya couldn't help a pang of sympathy for her, for losing her brother at a massacre. Because that was what happened at the Whispering Woods: a massacre, one that brought to mind the Twins.

She scowled down at her drink. _I hope Walder Frey's burning,_ she thought. _I hope he's screaming._ She'd make sure Roose Bolton joined him, too, and that Littlefinger as well.

 _Dunsen, Ser Meryn, Roose Bolton, Ramsay Snow, Littlefinger. Valar morghulis._ The prayer echoed in her head, and she took a sip of her ale.

\--

Three days afterwards, and they were still no closer to finding out who'd been responsible for the carnage at the Whispering Woods. None of the survivors were helpful--most had been too far away to see what was going on clearly, and those who were close enough had confused their accounts. And still the Winter Soldier was present in what few coherent accounts Jon had been able to hear--a ghost, with an arm made from Valyrian steel, took a good portion of their army by surprise and, in one night, had laid waste to it, if they were to be believed.

He didn't know if he could. The Soldier seemed almost mythic now, which was an impressive achievement, considering that no one had heard of him five years ago, before the War for the Dawn. What was that the smallfolk said, about him? _Winter, given form._

 _Winter is coming._ Winter had already come, and, it seemed, brought the Winter Soldier along with it.

 _If he exists,_ Jon reminded himself. It could very well have just been multiple people, all clad in black, and the survivors had twisted the image into something even more terrifying. Somehow, though, he had his doubts on that theory. There were too many people, for one, and too many different accounts that all agreed on one thing: the Soldier had been there.

He sighed, then leaned back in his chair, shut his eyes, and slipped, from his skin into Ghost's.

The first thing that registered was the smell. Even now, three days after, the killing ground smelled like the rot of death, like corpses being burned. And there was another smell, a _familiar_ smell, but the wolf couldn't place it. Something had seeped into that smell, something foul and corrupt, tainted it and changed it into something he could barely recognize, much less identify. He set off, following the familiar smell through the woods.

He stopped. The smell was stronger here, and he crouched low, ready to attack if he had to. He crept closer, and saw--

\--nothing. Only a pile of clothes, and plenty of teeth that could be thrown. He turned, sniffed the air, and followed what little of the trail was left. It stopped at a half-frozen stream, and he turned back. No point in following it anymore, when whoever it was had gone. Besides, there was something about the smell that unsettled him, something familiar and yet not, something deeply, deeply _wrong_. He trudged on back to the tent, and with one last grateful thought to his companion, Jon let go and woke up in his own body once more.

Whoever it had been was smart. They'd known Jon would come, at the very least, and that he'd bring Ghost to try and sniff them out. They'd known how to throw the direwolf off, how to wash off the scent they were sure to leave, how to keep from being seen. And whoever it had been--and he didn't think it was possible--was only one person, albeit heavily-armed as well. And the scent had seemed all too familiar to Jon, just as it did to Ghost, only it seemed _wrong_ , somehow, like something had tainted it. It didn't smell like a wight, though, or an Other. _So who was it?_

He had a feeling, though, that he already had his answer.

"Your Grace?" someone asked, pushing the tent flap aside. "Your Grace, were you in the middle of something?"

 _Oh._ He was never going to get used to being King in the North, was he? For all of his life he'd been a Snow, and now he was a Stark, a king. _Like Robb had been,_ he thought, and felt a dull ache in his chest for his dead brother. "I wasn't, Olyvar," he said, rising from his seat. "What was it?"

"Ser Brynden Tully wants to speak with you," Olyvar answered, standing ramrod straight. Jon pitied him, a little--he was a good man, but the Freys' reputation was always hanging over his head. He'd wanted a chance to prove that he could be trustworthy when he counted, and Jon had given him that chance. So far, Robb's old squire hadn't given him a reason to distrust him. "He said it was important."

Jon sighed. "Where is he now?" he asked. "I'll speak with him."

"In the maester's tent. Someone attacked him on his way here, Maester Samwell is tending to him now, he insisted he couldn't wait till he was better--" Olyvar cut himself off with a yelp, as Jon pushed quickly past him.

"Sorry," Jon said, turning to him, "and go speak with the Lady Brienne and Ser Jaime Lannister. I need to speak with them as soon as I'm done talking to the Blackfish."

Olyvar nodded, and said, "Yes, Your Grace." He hesitated a moment, and said, "Is there anything else you need me to do?"

"Aye," Jon muttered, turning away again. "Some ink that isn't frozen. I have to tell Sansa something I don't think she'll like." _The Winter Soldier just might be real,_ he thought.

Samwell's tent was just a short distance away from where they were keeping the wounded survivors, because he'd wanted to be as close to them as he possibly could. Jon stopped for a moment, to ask a young nurse about how many were still alive. The answer wasn't good--they'd lost ten in the night, eight had succumbed to the wounds they'd taken and two had just...lost their will to live. Closed their eyes and stopped breathing.

"Burn them," he told her.

"They're not going to turn into wights, are they?" she asked anxiously, as he turned away.

"I'm not taking any chances," he said, simply, and strode out of the tent. Ghost followed behind, a silent white shadow, and together they went into Sam's tent.

The first thing that hit him was the stench. It wasn't that of death, thank the gods, but it smelled just as foul. Sam had been trying out potions and the occasional magical enhancement when he wasn't keeping people from dying and turning into wights, and both Jon and Ghost weren't quite used to it. His eyes watered, and he muttered, "One of these days I need to put up another tent for your wizardry, Sam."

"It'd be much easier if I kept it in one place, though," Sam said, poking his head up from behind a curtain. "Hello, Jon." He paused, then belatedly added, "Your Grace."

Jon chuckled. "You've no need to call me Your Grace, Sam, we're brothers," he said. "You're family now."

"Well--" Sam gestured at him, and Jon raised a brow. "You're a king now. You don't have vows anymore. So--"

"We're still brothers," Jon said. "As Pyp and Grenn are still my brothers, as Satin Flowers and Leathers are." _And Alliser Thorne, and Wick Whittlestick, and Bowen Marsh were, once._ The wounds he'd taken from that day didn't itch so much anymore, but they were still there, a faded pink against his skin. He breathed in, and regretted it. "What happened to the Blackfish?"

"I'm right here, I can hear the both of you," came the slightly groggy answer from behind the curtain.

Sam stepped aside, and Jon strode past him, pushing the curtain aside.

He stared.

"My gods," he said, looking the Blackfish over. The man's right eye was swollen shut, his arm was bandaged and in a sling, purpling bruises bloomed everywhere on his body, and there was another bandage wrapped around his thigh. Another bandage, this one stained red, was wrapped around his chest. "What happened to you?"

"The Winter Soldier," the Blackfish said, and winced.

Jon felt a cold chill run down his spine.

"The Winter Soldier?" Sam whispered behind him, sounding absolutely terrified. "But--But he's just a rumor."

 _No,_ Jon almost said. _He's real._

"Then a rumor killed my horse and tried to kill me," the Blackfish said. "I may be an old man, but my eyes are still clear. I saw a man with a metal arm and a mask. _Yes,_ he's real."

 _Gods be good._ Jon thought of the letter he still had yet to write to Sansa, thought of the familiar-but-not smell, thought of the weapons and the clothes that drew Ghost away, thought of Garlan Tyrell's tent burned to ashes and the plans he must've made gone missing. What had the smallfolk said, about the Soldier? _Winter itself, given form._

"You didn't see his face, did you?" he asked.

The Blackfish fixed his steely gaze on him. "He was wearing a _mask_ ," he said. "No, I didn't see his face. But I saw the arm. Hard to forget that." He let out a breath, and hissed out a curse. "Seven _hells_. There's something I have to tell you, though, about Littlefinger and Bolton. _And_ the Soldier as well." He looked at Sam, and said, "Best send your maester out. The less who know about this, the better."

"But your wounds--"

"I've had worse," the Blackfish said.

Jon sighed. "Ser, Sam is one of the best men I know. Whatever you tell me here, in his presence, he'll keep secret." He glanced back at Sam, who nodded.

The Blackfish huffed out a breath. "Stubborn. Fine. Your Grace--"

There was a sudden scream from outside, and both Jon and Sam whipped around. The Blackfish cursed, behind them, and said, "Go. I can wait. _Go._ "

Jon went, and knelt down beside Ghost. "Stay with the Blackfish," he told him. The white wolf seemed to understand, and went into the tent as Jon and Sam raced out, Jon ripping Longclaw out from its sheath. People moved aside quickly, and he heard someone whisper something about _slaying the Kingslayer._

The Kingslayer was still alive, but he was lying on the ground, swearing up and down. Brienne was holding him, her hand over his stomach, and Jon saw blood staining her glove, heard her pleading _Jaime, please_ , and Olyvar was holding him up as well, looking shell-shocked. There was an arrow sticking out of Lannister's stomach, with grey fletching, and Jon's eyes darted around the gathering crowd. No, it couldn't have been anyone nearby, most of them were either sick, wounded, or tending to the former. Or building pyres.

Sam was already moving, kneeling down next to Lannister and talking to Brienne and Olyvar, telling them to keep pressure on the wound, telling them what he needed to keep Jaime Lannister from dying. Brienne shouted orders to the crowd, Olyvar got slowly to his feet and ran for the survivors' tent, and Jon found himself scanning the people around them once more.

"Jon," Sam said, snapping Jon out of his thoughts, "there's some milk of the poppy in my tent, can you go get some? Your Grace, I mean." He seemed to blush, as if he'd never imagined he'd be barking orders at Jon. As if that didn't happen regularly enough, though most of it was more along the lines of _stay still or this is going to hurt more than it should_.

"Keep him from dying," Jon said, then ran for the tent.

"Isn't that what I'm _supposed_ to do?" Sam called after him.

Jon pushed the tent flap aside, and was tackled to the ground. His sword clattered, he heard a sudden shout and the sound of arrows, and _oh gods._

He hurriedly got to his feet, and flung the curtain aside.

The Blackfish breathed in, out. In, out. _Not for much longer if we don't get a maester in here,_ Jon thought, staring at the arrow buried in Brynden Tully's chest.

The man stirred, then turned to look at him. "Go," he rasped. "Find him. And remember your brother."

Jon's blood ran cold. _What do you mean?_ he wanted to demand, but time was running short for them. He nodded, turned away, picked up his sword and sheathed it, grabbed a quiver full of arrows and a bow, pushed the tent flap aside, and yelled, "Someone get a maester here for the Blackfish!" Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of sunlight reflecting off Valyrian steel. His heart hammered in his chest. _The Winter Soldier,_ he thought, as a weathered old man hurried to him, wearing a maester's chain. "Save him," he told the man roughly. "I'm going to catch the man who tried to kill him." _If he doesn't kill me first._

The maester's eyes widened, and he stammered, "Your Grace--"

" _Save him,_ " Jon repeated.

The maester hurried inside, and Jon, Ghost following behind him, ran, chasing a ghost.


	3. JON | JAIME | THE SOLDIER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Mayhaps he's a Stark," Jaime said. "A long-lost bastard, even, come to take your place. Or yet another dead Stark, come back from the grave to take your house words a little too seriously."_

_Remember your brother,_ the Blackfish had said.

_Which one?_ Jon wanted to say, but he had a feeling he already knew. But what, exactly, did what Brynden Tully have to say have anything to do with Robb? Robb had died years ago, murdered at the Red Wedding by Roose Bolton, and Jon remembered him all too well every day. It was only his brother's crown he wore, after all, and his brother's title, and everyday he wondered what Robb would think. It was his will that named him heir, after all, and he hoped that meant he'd be proud. He hoped his father would be proud of him.

That thought was pushed aside, in favor of _now_. He ducked under a branch and kept running, vaulting over a log. As he ran after the man who'd shot both Jaime Lannister and Brynden Tully, Jon's mind raced through what he knew of the Soldier. The man had managed to lay waste to a third of an army, most of them hardened in battle. He'd shot Jaime Lannister, certainly, but it wasn't meant to kill, it was meant to _distract_ , else Lannister would be dead as well. If he was responsible for even half the murders the rumors attributed to him, then he was already a threat, all by himself. And that arm of his--Valyrian steel, said the rumors. Valyrian steel, and some kind of magic and metalwork that made it move smooth as summer silk. He was strong, he was fast, and Jon was _chasing after him._

He could hear Arya's voice in his head now. _You stupid!_ she'd declare, and call him every foul insult underneath the sun for it. And mayhaps some that hadn't been heard in a long time as well.

He pulled the bow from his back as he ran, pulled an arrow from the quiver and _notch, draw, loose_. The arrow sailed through the air.

The Soldier _moved_ , whipping around faster than a man carrying so many weapons should, and in one smooth motion, snatched the arrow out of the air with his left hand.

He had on a black mask, covering the lower half of his face, and dirty red hair tied back. But it was his eyes that drew Jon's attention--they were a light blue, the only thing about him that was light, and they were dead, dead, dead.

_Remember your brother,_ the Blackfish's words echoed in his head.

The Soldier had Robb's eyes, Jon realized. Only, that was wrong, was it? The Soldier's eyes were as blue as Robb's, but there was no _life_ in them, nothing at all. He could have taken him for a wight, or an Other, but his skin was only the pale skin of someone who didn't come outside much, if at all, it didn't have that blue tint to it.

_Who are you?_ he wanted to ask, but the Soldier was already pulling his hand back, and he only had a split second to duck before the Soldier threw the arrow back, and it embedded itself in a nearby tree trunk as Jon crashed to the ground.

When he pushed himself up to his feet, the Winter Soldier had disappeared. Ghost sniffed the air and took off, and Jon followed after him. They stopped at another frozen stream, but there was a big enough hole in its icy surface that someone could trudge through it and throw off the scent. He glanced around the forest, searching for a glint of sunlight off metal, but found no trace of the Soldier. It was as if he'd never been there at all. _Like a ghost,_ Jon thought, _but whose?_

He let out a breath. There was no use in following after him now, that much was clear enough. The man had disappeared, as quick as he'd come, and gods knew when Jon would cross paths with him again, when he'd see those cold, dead blue eyes staring at him once more. _Eyes like Robb's,_ he thought. That was the only thing the Soldier had in common with him, it seemed, and he wondered why the Blackfish would remind him about Robb. He didn't exactly need a reminder of whose crown he wore.

"Come on, Ghost," he said. The wolf fell in silently behind him, and they walked away, Jon throwing an occasional glance over his shoulder, just in case he saw a flash of Valyrian steel, or a pair of dead blue eyes.

\--

From the moment he got shot in the gut, Jaime figured the day was a wash. Not that he'd really _know_ , considering that most of it from that point onwards was a haze. He vaguely remembered hearing something about the Blackfish, and an arrow, thought that at some point Jon Snow-- _Stark, now,_ he reminded himself, _and a king at that_ \--stood at his bedside talking with his fat friend. Brienne held his left hand at some point, pleading with him. Cersei stood at the foot of his bed, terrible and beautiful, and it took him a moment to realize she was a dream, but a bittersweet one.

When he came to, Jon Stark was sitting by his bedside, reading over a letter.

"On your left," Jaime rasped.

Jon looked up, and narrowed his eyes at him. "Hah," he said dryly. "I sent Brienne out for some rest. It's been a long day, and we all need as much sleep as we can get."

"I've slept enough," Jaime said, trying to sit up, wincing, and then lying back down. "And you, Your _Grace_?" The man shifted in his seat, and while Jaime would never get used to addressing Ned Stark's bastard as a king, it seemed Jon himself wasn't quite used to not being a bastard at all, much less a king.

"I can't sleep," Jon replied, simply and honestly. "The Blackfish was here, did you know that?"

_And how couldn't I, there was such a commotion when he arrived, looking like his horse had thrown him off._ "Was he, now?"

Jon stood, folding the paper and tucking it into a little bag hanging from his belt. "He had something he wanted to say to me," he said. "Something about Baelish, Bolton..." he trailed off, as if wondering if he should say the next part, then went on, "And the Winter Soldier."

"Baelish and Bolton, I'd be expecting him to keep an eye out for." Ever since Bolton and his bastard had up and disappeared from their cells, everyone and their mother was looking for them. Baelish as well, he knew Sansa Stark had a personal interest in seeing him dead. "But the Winter Soldier? Hard to keep an eye out for someone who doesn't exist, even with a bloody metal arm."

"He exists," Jon said, quietly. "He was the one who managed to turn the Whispering Woods into a battlefield once more--no, not a battlefield, a massacre--and after that, killed the Blackfish's horse as he was riding here. He shot you, and while everyone was distracted because of you, shot the Blackfish."

"And you have proof of that?" Jaime asked.

"Only my word," Jon answered. "I ran after him and loosed an arrow at him, and he snatched it out of the air." He waited, then added, "I swear to you, by the old gods and the new and on my father's grave, _I am not lying to you._ I saw him and chased after him, though he got away. Ghost even recognized his scent, but neither of us knew exactly _who_ he was even then."

"I'd ask how much you had to drink first," Jaime said, "but it seems you're more sober than usual. I never thought such a thing possible until now." Come to think of it, he remembered a flash of light, like sunlight glittering off a sword of Valyrian steel, before he felt an arrow punch into his gut. "The Blackfish?"

"Alive," Jon said. "For now. I've posted as many men as I can spare at Sam's tent to keep him safe, but I don't know how much help that will be, if the Soldier comes back." He sighed, ran a hand through his dark curls, as if deciding on something. "Tell me," he said at last, "what do you know about the Red Wedding?"

That again. Jaime was sick of being asked about the wedding, and about Aerys as well. "As much as everyone else does," Jaime told him, a little harsher than he meant, and didn't care. "Robb Stark died there, with his wolf, his mother and many of his bannermen. His mother came back for a time, but as far as we all know, she's gone back to her grave." _And let us hope she stays there._ "What, exactly, does that have to do with anything?"

Jon hesitated. "Nothing," he said finally, in a tone that said he was keeping something hidden, and that it did, in fact, have something to do with the Soldier. "I only wondered." He stood up, and said, "I have to send a letter, then I'll ride for Winterfell in the morning. I have to tell Sansa about this, and whoever else she'll be meeting with."

"And the rest of us?"

"Stay here," Jon said. "Keep an eye on the Blackfish. Tell everyone that if they see a man in black with dirty red hair and dead eyes to _run_ and don't look back. If even half of what they say of the Soldier is true, then we're dealing with someone far too dangerous to even think of engaging." He stood, and Jaime watched him take out the letter and scan over it once more. There was something weighing on his mind, that much was obvious enough, and it all had something to do with the Winter Soldier. _Appropriate, for someone who only came along when the winter did._

"Mayhaps he's a Stark," Jaime said. "A long-lost bastard, even, come to take your place. Or yet another dead Stark, come back from the grave to take your house words a little too seriously."

Jon glared at him.

"Only a jape," Jaime said, waving his stump dismissively. "Have you ever heard of those, Stark?"

"I've heard of them," Jon said, icy as ever. "You'll have to forgive me if I don't return yours." He left, then.

Jaime leaned back, and looked up at the tent's ceiling. The wound still ached, but it was a lesser ache now, and bearable as well. At least he wasn't bleeding out on the ground anymore. _A small comfort._

He closed his eyes, and dreamed.

\--

"The _Winter Soldier_?"

"He exists," Jon wearily said, for--well, he'd lost count of how many times he had to say it, and the reality of it was still sinking in for him. "He shot Jaime Lannister, and while everyone else was distracted, shot Brynden Tully while he lay in Sam's tent. I ran after him and loosed an arrow at him, but he managed to catch it and throw it back, and then he disappeared. And no, he was wearing a mask, so I didn't see his face." _But his eyes were Tully blue,_ he thought. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but he might be the one responsible for what happened here."

Brienne sat down, and looked up at him. "We have to bring him to justice for what he did," she said, her tone firm. "Too many good men died here at his hands, and because of him, the Blackfish won't be waking any time soon."

"And I won't have more dying by his hands because they wanted to bring him to justice somehow," Jon said. "If even half the rumors that speak of him are true, and even if we're discounting what he did here, he's still one of the most dangerous men in Westeros, if not the world." He sat down beside her, and tentatively set a hand over hers. "Lannister's safe," he told her. "And alive."

"I was _right there_ ," she said, finally, bowing her head. "I should've seen him, before he had a chance to attack."

"They call him a ghost," Jon said. "He certainly lived up to that reputation, considering that no one saw him before he attacked." If it hadn't been for that glint of light, Jon was sure the Soldier might not have been seen at all. "I've sent Sansa a raven with what I've learned, and on the morrow, I'll ride for Winterfell."

Brienne let out a breath, then stood, drawing herself up to her full height. She was tall, and in her armor, she was an intimidating figure. In combat, she was lethal, but there were others who could be more than a match for her, and Jon didn't doubt that the Soldier was among those. "I'll ride with you," she said, sounding resigned yet determined.

"No, you aren't," he said. "I'll ride with Ghost. You'll stay here and keep watch over Ser Brynden."

Brienne blinked at him, clear shock written across her features. "Sansa named me part of your guard," she pointed out. "If the Soldier is out there, he'll likely come after you."

"He'll likely come back here to finish what he started," Jon said. "I can take care of myself, my lady. I'm more worried about those who can't, right now." He rubbed her hand and mustered up the strength for a small smile. "You'll do better work here, I imagine. And I've a feeling someone needs to keep Lannister from getting into a fight with someone."

Brienne smiled back, a little uncertain but almost grateful. "Will you be all right?"

Jon huffed out a laugh, then stood up. "I lived for most of my life without a guard or even a title," he said. "I'll be fine."

\--

The Soldier trudged through snow and ice. Contrary to what people said about him, to the few things he overheard that stayed in his head, he couldn't control the winter, no more than anyone could. He only felt more comfortable in it, as comfortable as he was ever going to get, certainly, but that was all there was to it.

The Blackfish was still alive, but he wouldn't be waking up any time soon, he'd made sure of that. Jaime Lannister was alive as well, but the wound he'd taken would keep him off the battlefield for some time. And Jon Snow, and his great white wolf...

Something flickered at the fringes of the Soldier's memory. He'd seen Snow before, seen him smiling at him, seen snowflakes melting in his dark hair, and hadn't he said something to him, _black was always my color--_

He leaned against a tree, closed his eyes, pressed his right hand up to his temples, and breathed in, out. In, out. The memory was gone just as fast as it came, and all it left behind was an empty ache in his chest, like he was missing something important. He'd felt that feeling before, that strange hollow ache, and knew that it wouldn't stay for long. It would fade in time, and if it did stay--it had once before, he knew, but he couldn't recall what had brought it on, thought it wasn't important--then it would be wiped from him, like everything else. There wasn't any point in clinging to that feeling, no matter how important it seemed.

It wasn't relevant to his mission, anyway.

He breathed out, and the hollow feeling faded, as he knew it would. He opened his eyes, and walked on.

Above him, the snow was falling.


	4. SANSA | ARYA

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Who died?" Sansa said, suddenly, looking up from the maps on the table to Asha. "You said you glimpsed the Soldier. Who died?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to Faithy for the beta job, and to [tumblr user savingsergeantbarnes](http://savingsergeantbarnes.tumblr.com/) for being a sounding board for headcanons!

_Dark wings, dark words,_ the saying went, and the words Jon had written for Sansa were certainly dark, if difficult to believe at first. _The Winter Soldier is real enough,_ he'd written down to start off, _and he shot the Blackfish and Jaime Lannister._

The Blackfish. Sansa hoped he'd be all right, the man had been a valuable help in winning the North. And Lannister--Sansa still didn't trust him, and never would, not after everything that had happened to her in King's Landing, but Brienne cared for him. For Brienne's sake, she hoped the Kingslayer was all right as well. She read on, and the words grew darker: _he was responsible for what happened here at the Whispering Woods, that much is clear enough. If even a few of the rumors flying around about him are true, then he's one of the most dangerous men in Westeros._

"Sansa?"

She looked up from the letter, to see Arya leaning against the doorway. She was idly playing with a coin, twirling it between her fingers and occasionally tossing it up in the air, catching it with her other hand. Sansa considered it an improvement, Arya once did the same tricks with a small knife. Gods knew she probably still did. "What is it, Arya?" she asked.

"Margaery's here," Arya said, blunt as ever. "And Stannis Baratheon and Asha Greyjoy and even Daenerys Targaryen."

Two more people than she thought she'd be dealing with, then. Sansa folded the letter, and tucked it into a pocket in her dress, before rising from her seat and smoothing out her skirts. She recalled the last time Daenerys Targaryen had visited Winterfell, and shivered at the thought.

"Did she bring any dragons?"

"Do you see anything burning?"

Sansa looked out the window and breathed a sigh of relief. There was no sign of smoke or dragons anywhere. "No dragons," she said. "At least there's that."

"But a squire tried to do the finger dance with Wex Pyke," Arya added. "He's with Maester Tuttle now. And there's an axe buried in one of the tables."

Sansa massaged her temples. "Tell everyone that there's to be no more finger dancing," she said with a sigh, then eyed the sheathed knife hanging from Arya's hip. "That goes for you as well, Arya."

Her sister made a face. "I'm better at it than almost everyone here," she huffed. "Why shouldn't I?"

"Because you'll set an example and Maester Tuttle will have to deal with more than just one foolish squire to patch up," Sansa said.

"Then they deserve to be there," Arya sniped, folding her arms across her chest and glaring at her, daring her to argue. Sansa had seen lesser men shrink away from that glare, and battle-hardened warriors wither before it.

"That may be so," she said coolly, matching her sister's glare with a calm, composed stare, "but after the Whispering Woods, we need all the men we can get. And I won't have them accidentally cutting their own fingers off." She crossed her arms as well, and breathed out. "I know you won't follow my orders," she said, "but if you'll keep the finger-dancing between you and Asha alone, I'll see if I can't get a new knife made for you."

Arya's eyes widened. "Truly?" she breathed.

Sansa grinned. "Truly," she promised.

\--

Long after she'd returned to Westeros, after she'd assumed her own identity once more, Arya still kept up the habit of finding three new things, at least, each time the moon turned, and the only thing that had changed was who she told them to. She had two now--one of the whores in the tavern had found herself with child and was trying to hide it, and just days ago the Winter Soldier had left behind a wake of death and devastation in the Whispering Woods. She only needed one more.

She stepped into the meeting room, just behind Sansa. Parts of Winterfell were still burned and blackened ruins, but they'd managed to rebuild enough of it that they could use it once more. The part that once housed their father's chambers were among them, and Jon had that converted into a room where kings, queens, and those they trusted could come together and make plans, with no blood shed. At least, that was its intended purpose. Weapons were supposed to be left at the door, considering the feuds and wars that had been waged between every person who had set foot in the room at least once, but Arya kept at least two knives on her even inside. She had a feeling that despite the rule, everyone who had ever come inside still carried at least _one_ weapon on them.

"Your Grace," Sansa politely said, to each one of them. Arya leaned against the wall and watched them--Stannis Baratheon was grinding his teeth from impatience; Margaery Tyrell was clad in black, her eyes red from weeping, but she was standing as straight and tall as ever; the bells tinkled in Daenerys Targaryen's braid as she rose from her seat; and Asha Greyjoy had stuck the knife she was using to clean her nails in the table before getting to her feet. Asha was the only one to glance at Arya and grin at her, the rest paid attention only to Sansa.

Arya grinned back at her, and stayed standing as the five rulers sat down.

"I've received news from Jon about the Whispering Woods," Sansa began. "He says--and I swear to all of you, by the old gods and the new, that he wrote this--that the Winter Soldier is real, and he was responsible for the massacre at the Whispering Woods."

Arya froze, as the room suddenly exploded into noise and the four visitors jumped to their feet.

"Are you telling me my brother was killed by a _rumor_ \--" Margaery Tyrell, who Arya had very rarely ever seen this angry.

"Has Stark lost his wits somehow--" Daenerys Targaryen. Arya resisted the urge to yell at her for even implying such a thing about her brother. _Coming from a Targaryen?_ she wanted to snap at her.

"How does he know he saw the Winter Soldier--" Asha Greyjoy. She noted that Asha seemed like she believed Sansa, from the way her eyes had grown wide.

"The _Winter Soldier?_ " Stannis Baratheon, incredulous. She could hear him grind his teeth even here. "Here I'd thought him only a rumor the smallfolk had made up."

"He's more than that." They all turned to Arya, now, as she straightened up. "The smallfolk say a lot of things about him. They say he's a wizard, a wight, an Other, even the Stranger himself, something not entirely human for certain. They say he has an arm made from Valyrian steel that moves smooth as his real arm, that even the shadows themselves help hide him when he moves." She stepped closer to the table. "They say he's a ghost," she said, as casual as ever.

"Everyone knows that," Daenerys said. "How is he more than just a rumor?"

Arya breathed out, and glanced at Sansa. "I never said anything," she said, "I'm sorry," and she lifted up her shirt to let them see the scar on her torso, where an arrow had passed through her years ago. "I saw him once," she said, ignoring Sansa's sudden gasp. "He shot me."

"And you survived," Asha said. "Since we're speaking of the Soldier--I've seen him once before. Or a glimpse of him, more like, but that arm of his is rather distinctive." She paused, glancing at the incredulous expressions around her, and shrugged. "No one ever asked."

Arya added that to her list-- _one of the whores in the tavern is pregnant, the Winter Soldier attacked and devastated a third of an army at the Whispering Woods, and Asha Greyjoy once saw him and lived._

Daenerys let out a breath. "It seems to me," she said, "that dismissing rumors of the Winter Soldier as only rumors was--unwise, to say the least. The question is, how do we track him down?"

"You can't," Arya said, setting her hands down on the table to lean closer to the dragon queen. "I tried. When they say he's a ghost, they _mean_ it."

"This ghost," Stannis said, "poses a bigger threat to us than most other ghosts I've ever heard of, and all we have of him are scraps and rumors. In other words, we know almost nothing about him. What, exactly, do you propose we do? Sit on our hands and wait until his next appearance? How many more men will we lose, then?"

"What else can we do?" Margaery asked. "I don't want to sit around and wait to lose more men to him as well--he killed my _brother_ , after all--but none of us know who he is, where he is, and who he answers to. _If_ he even answers to anyone."

"Who died?" Sansa said, suddenly, looking up from the maps on the table to Asha. "You said you glimpsed the Soldier. Who died?"

Asha smiled, thinly. "Why, two of my dear uncles, of course." There was a sharp edge to her smile, sharp as the axe and dagger she bore, and a sharper edge to her voice. "You've heard of Uncle Damphair and my nuncle Rodrik's sudden deaths, and the rumors over who killed them. Well, I know who could have--I glimpsed him by chance, and it seems he shot the Lady Arya before that."

"I'm not a _lady_ ," Arya huffed, indignant. "I was trained in the House of Black and White."

"Which makes him a danger," Margaery said. "Name any other assassin who has ever managed to outmatch a Faceless Man, or even someone trained by Faceless Men. Name any other assassin who managed to destroy a _third_ of a well-trained army, who has even half the kills rumor attributes to the Soldier, who is so much of a mystery that no one is certain on many details about him at all, much less how many he's killed."

Arya opened her mouth in reply, but paused. No one else came to mind. Silence fell over the table, and Arya watched them all--Stannis grinding his teeth, Margaery leaning over with her hands on the table and a rare anger in her eyes, Daenerys' lips thinning, Asha fingering a hidden dagger, and Sansa drawing out the letter and rereading it once more.

"He has to answer for what he's done," Daenerys said, finally, breaking the silence.

"We'd have to find him first," Sansa said.

"And how?" Stannis dryly asked. "Shall we send ravens to all the lords of Westeros, call on them to watch for a man with a metal arm? Mayhaps we'll ask them to keep an eye out for grumkins and snarks as well."

"Why not?" Margaery said. "It's the best we have, besides just waiting for him to attack again and lose more men than we can afford to."

Sansa let out a breath. "It's worth a try, at least," she said. "But I doubt most would really believe that, not without evidence of his existence. Not many of you believed he existed at all at the start of this meeting, at least until Arya showed you her scar and Asha told her story."

Arya's gaze slid to Asha, then. She was deceptively calm, her manner as casual as ever, but Arya had learned enough about reading people to know that it was a front, that Asha was clenching her teeth, that there was a cold rage behind that front, simmering just beneath her calm veneer. She knew neither the Damphair nor Asha got along very well, especially not after the queensmoot, but Rodrik Harlaw, she'd confided once, was the one uncle she trusted most above the others. Not a hard achievement--Arya had seen Victarion, and Euron's mad laughter still haunted her nightmares sometimes. She never met Rodrik, but she could imagine, distantly, how painful it must've been, for Asha to have lost him.

"So we send out ravens," Daenerys said, grimly, "and trust the lords to trust our word with no proof they can see." She sighed. "And this is the best plan we have?"

Sansa nodded. "We barely know anything about him besides some of what he looks like and that he was responsible for the Whispering Woods," she said, "and that his arm is made from Valyrian steel. Unless you have a better plan, I'll have Maester Tuttle send out the ravens as soon as I can." She waited, and the dragon queen stayed silent, but Arya could see that it rankled with Daenerys. She'd seen how the woman had dealt with those who had wronged the people she cared for, those who had done injustice to lesser men. That the Winter Soldier remained free after the Whispering Woods and they could do nothing to bring him to justice grated on her, that much Arya could see. "This meeting is done."

\--

Sansa watched them leave. Asha had glanced to Arya, as she stood with the rest, and she figured they would be speaking soon enough on what they'd learned.

Her head was still spinning from the thought. Arya had seen the Winter Soldier. Arya had been _shot_ by the Winter Soldier. She'd been shot by a ghost, but had lived to tell the tale, a scar on her stomach proving her words true.

She thought of the Whispering Woods, and wondered, what had made the Soldier spare Arya?

"I don't know why he spared me," Arya said, suddenly, snapping Sansa out of her thoughts. Her younger sister had perched herself on the table, stormy grey eyes trained on her, reading her face. Sansa suppressed a curse--she was usually better at keeping a perfectly blank expression than now, especially since Arya had learned to read faces like open books. "I thought maybe it was because I was in the way, and once I wasn't he moved on to whoever he had to kill." She huffed out a breath, then hopped off the table. "But I've been thinking, the men he killed at the Whispering Woods were in the way too, weren't they? And he killed _them_. But four years ago, he spared me. So what happened between then and now?"

"Maybe you reminded him of someone," Sansa said. "Or he was less comfortable with it then than he is now. People can change in four years, Arya."

"If I reminded him of someone, it wasn't enough to stop him from shooting me at all," Arya retorted. She paused, her brow furrowing in thought. "And--he reminded me of someone, too. There was something about the way he moved, something about his _eyes_ , that felt-- _familiar_. Familiar, but wrong, somehow." She sighed, then dropped into a chair.

Sansa felt a cold chill run down her spine. _Familiar but wrong._ The last time anyone had felt that way to Sansa, she was staring at the corpse of her mother, lying peacefully beneath a shroud, almost seeming asleep save for the red stain just above her heart and the ugly gash in her throat. She had always wondered what she would do, after the funeral, if she had met whoever killed her mother a second time. Would she have thanked them, before putting a knife through their heart? "What else haven't you told me about him?" she asked.

Arya shrugged. "That's all I know about him for certain," she said. "I'll go talk with Asha now--maybe she's with Theon. Are you going to stay here and start writing letters about the Winter Soldier?"

Sansa opened her mouth.

Someone knocked on the door, a loud, insistent rapping. Arya's fingers ghosted over where Sansa knew she kept a palm knife, for cutting into purses and slipping into hearts.

Sansa sighed, and said, "Stay here a moment, Arya, I'll get it." She stood, walked to the door and opened it, and Tyrion Lannister walked in, clad in black and taking a swig of his flask. "My lord of Lannister," she said, stiffly.

Her former husband raised an eyebrow at her. "Your Grace," he greeted her. "And my lady of Stark as well. I'd hoped to find a bed, a skin of ale, and maybe even a woman with great big teats and a penchant for men of the Night's Watch, but it seems that in all this rebuilding I must have gotten very lost." He shrugged, then looked to Arya, seeming for the first time to notice her glaring at him.

"You're lying," she said bluntly. "You meant to come here."

"So I did," Lannister said.

"How much did you hear?" Sansa asked.

Tyrion climbed up on a chair, stunted legs hanging just a little off the ground, and drank from his flask once more. "Something about the Winter Soldier," he said. "I assume that's what the meeting was about? I could hear Stannis Baratheon's teeth grinding down to nothing when I passed him in the hallway, and the Dragon Queen seemed set on burning something." He leaned forward, as much as he could without toppling over, anyway. "I heard what you said, Lady Stark," he said. "May I see the scar?"

Arya glared at him, then roughly yanked her shirt up so he could see the scar on her skin, as well as the hilt of the little knife near it, hanging on her belt. Sansa kept her face carefully blank, watching shock, disbelief and wariness flicker over Lannister's expression.

"Well," he said, leaning back. "I suppose that answers the question of who, exactly, killed Jon Connington four years ago."

Sansa turned to Arya, feeling suddenly lost. Jon Connington--she'd heard of him. He'd raised Aegon Blackfyre for years before they'd gone on to Westeros to conquer, and had been dying of greyscale by then. No one knew just who had killed him, though Arya always went just a little too still at the mention of his name. Sansa had always figured Arya had, at least, played a part in his death, if not that of his adopted son, from that reaction, but to hear her suspicions confirmed...

 _Some lies are love._ Arya's faceless years were a murky thing that she didn't like to talk about, and Sansa knew better than to try and sate her curiosity about it.

"What do you want?" Arya snapped at the Imp.

"Why, the same thing as everyone else," Lannister said. "To live. And the Winter Soldier's presence rather threatens that. After all, who knows who he'll go after next? Maybe one of us in this very room. And the two of you are an integral part of the war efforts, gods know we'll all fall apart if not for you and your brothers." He paused, took a sip, then added, "Don't tell anyone I said that. Least of all Jaime."

"I won't," Sansa dryly said.

"Just _tell_ us what you came here to say!" Arya snapped.

"I've seen the Winter Soldier before," Lannister said, setting his skin of ale aside. "And before you ask--no, he had a mask on, I didn't see his face. But I saw his arm. As far as I know, he's something much like Ser Robert Strong: silent, and deadly. Fitting, considering the same man responsible for Strong was responsible for the Soldier as well."

"Qyburn, wasn't it?" Sansa asked. "I've heard of him, and of what he did with the Mountain's body as well." She shuddered to think of it, of that great hulking, headless thing clad in armor, motionless on the ground, a sword in its chest. She wondered what kind of monster would drag someone like him back from death. "Are you saying the Winter Soldier was brought back from death?"

"A likely possibility, given that this is Qyburn we're speaking of," Lannister answered. "Rumors of the Soldier started just a few years ago, but I can say with certainty that he was around before then. My dear sweet sister let slip to Lady Taena Merryweather once that she'd used him in a few assassinations, though she either had no clue where he and Qyburn went after her downfall or had a rare flash of wisdom and didn't say a word of it. But I have no doubt that, wherever Qyburn goes, the Soldier is sure to follow."

Sansa breathed out easier. "So if we find Qyburn," she said, "we find the Soldier." She leaned forward, bending down to match Lannister's level and looking her former husband in his mismatched eyes. "When did you see the Soldier?" she asked.

Lannister said, "Three years ago. We were at Raventree drawing up plans for attacking the Twins, if you recall."

"I remember well enough," Sansa said. She thought of the cry that had been raised, when one of the knights had toppled over with a poison dart sticking out of his neck. "We'd had Archmaester Ebrose with us, but just after that knight died, he died too." There was a red slash across the old man's throat, and his eyes were open in pure terror. "Was it the Winter Soldier?"

"Exactly," Lannister said. "I didn't see the killing, but I did see him leave. At the time I was certain it was just a product of the wine, but I hid all the same. His arm was certainly made from Valyrian steel, I can tell you that much, and some kind of magic that made it move smooth as summer silk. And his eyes--for a moment I thought we were being beset by wights, they were so blue." He paused for a moment, staring at Sansa as if seeing her for the first time, some kind of realization dawning on his face. Sansa's gaze flicked briefly to Arya, whose fingers twitched just a little, before flicking back to Lannister.

"Go on," she said.

"I'm afraid," he said, curtly, "that that's all I know."

"Liar," Arya cut in. "You know more."

"I know as much as everyone else for certain, besides what I've just told you," Lannister said, grabbing his skin of ale and hopping off the chair. "Now, if you'll excuse me--"

"You're excused," Sansa said, looking to Arya and mouthing, _He's told as much as he wants, and he's not going to say more._

 _I could make him say more,_ Arya mouthed back.

Sansa shook her head. "I'll have one of the servants show you to your room," she said, moving to open the door.

"No need," Lannister said, waddling out of the room and, tellingly, not looking at either of them. Something was brewing in the Imp's mind, Sansa knew, and whatever it was, it concerned the Winter Soldier. "I'll head to the tavern, and as it just so happens, I know my way there much better."

They watched him leave, then Sansa shut the door, the new information the meeting had brought rattling in her head. She turned to Arya, who was tapping her fingers on the table, her brow furrowed as she turned this new information over in her own head.

“He’s not telling everything,” Arya said.

“He’s told everything he’s sure of,” Sansa said. “That much he told true. You saw.” _His eyes--they were so blue._ He’d stopped there, and stared at her, as if something had only just clicked into place. _What is it about the Soldier’s eyes?_ she wondered.

“But he _suspects_ something,” Arya argued. “He started to, just now.”

“Not for certain,” Sansa said. “And we need more reliable information, not just rumors and guesswork. We have a wealth of those already, and not all of them are entirely true.” _No one can make ice daggers out of nowhere, for example,_ she thought. “But at least we know where to start asking, and who to look for.”

“So where do we start, if not with the Imp?” Arya asked.

“The Imp’s sister,” Sansa said. “Find Nymeria. We’ll leave for the Red Keep when the Dragon Queen does, in three days.” She looked at Arya, who had suddenly gone very still, save for her hand, clenching into a fist. “Don’t kill her,” she said, softly. “We need this information.”

“I’m not promising anything,” Arya sullenly said, but her fist unclenched, and she seemed to relax. Sansa knew, though, that she wasn’t--there was a tension in her shoulders that hadn’t quite left entirely.

She prayed, to anyone who could hear her, that this meeting wouldn’t end in bloodshed. She had a feeling there would be more than enough of that soon enough.


	5. TYRION | THEON | JON

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I wanted to ask," Tyrion said, instead, "what would you say if you could, somehow, speak to Robb Stark again?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thanks to Faithy for the beta job and tumblr user [savingsergeantbarnes](http://savingsergeantbarnes.tumblr.com) and [janiedean](http://janiedean.tumblr.com) for being headcanon buddies with me! this is not my best chapter, I'm sorry, college and sudden road trips fucked up my writing schedule. welp. enjoy anyways!

Tyrion walked on, paying only the barest mind to his surroundings, thinking of the Winter Soldier's eyes. Dead eyes, he remembered that clearly enough, and blue as well. As blue as Sansa Stark's, not a wight's. And the man's hair--it had been too dark to make out the exact color, not to mention Tyrion had been drunk at the time, but it had seemed almost red in the firelight. _Tully red, if a dirtier shade, how could I not have seen that before?_

He'd told Sansa and Arya the truth--he had given them what he was certain of, about the Winter Soldier. This was something he'd only just realized, a theory bubbling up and only just taking form in his mind, but it fit. It fit all too well. He wouldn't put it past Qyburn to have done such a thing, and it certainly seemed like Cersei to know, and even approve of such a thing. He didn't think his deceased father didn't know, either--hell, he might've even been the one to propose the whole thing. _A shame he wasn't able to see the fruits of that plan._ He imagined how his former wife and her sister would take it, if he turned around, waddled back into that room and told them what he suspected.

_I may as well sign my own death warrant if I do,_ he thought wryly. He had to be sure, first, and he figured Cersei wouldn't be too inclined to confirm his suspicions. Jaime wouldn't even know a thing about it--their sweet sister would have kept this a secret from him as well. Qyburn--the last he'd heard of the former maester, he'd disappeared the same night Bolton and his bastard did, and even if Tyrion knew where he was, he might not confirm his theory either.

It seemed impossible. _But impossible things have happened before, haven't they?_ He'd ridden on a dragon, seen the dead rise with his own eyes, fought alongside a Stark. Suddenly his theory seemed all too plausible.

Gods, he hoped it really was just that. One dead Stark coming back to life had been enough to shake the living ones up, and Lady Stoneheart, formerly known as the Lady Catelyn Stark, had died again by the time most of them found out. He didn't want to be the one to tell Sansa about his suspicions of the Winter Soldier's identity.

He had a feeling, though, that they weren't just suspicions.

He turned, and cursed under his breath. No, this certainly wasn't the tavern, he'd ended up at the archery range while lost in his own thoughts. It seemed he didn't know the way to the tavern as well as he thought, if he'd taken a left turn somewhere and ended up here instead. He drew his furs tighter around himself, and shivered from the cold.

There was a _thunk_ , and Tyrion saw a target with two or three arrows buried around the center already, and three more stuck in the outer rings. One had even found its way to the wall behind it. He glanced to the man shooting, and said, "Taking up archery again, are we, Greyjoy?"

Theon Greyjoy flinched, almost dropping the bow. He looked healthier than the last time Tyrion had seen him, but he still looked a far cry from the dark-haired youth who smiled easily at everything. His hair had turned white in his time with Ramsay Snow, and was growing in grey, and his gloves hid his missing fingers as well. He looked gaunt still, and his eyes were wide in surprise when he saw Tyrion. "And what, exactly, brings you here, Lannister?" he asked, sounding more resigned than anything.

"I was hoping to find the tavern," Tyrion answered, "but it seems I've lost my way. A pity, I thought I'd made sure I could walk there in my sleep if need be." He gave Greyjoy a sharp smile, and in return got a narrowed, suspicious glare. _Borrowed that off your dear sister now, did you?_ "You've lost your touch."

"I've lost more than that," Greyjoy said, his eyes sliding to the target. A bitter smile touched his lips for a moment, then it was gone as he notched another arrow, licking his lips and looking down the shaft to the target. "What do you want?"

Tyrion wondered, for a moment, if he could tell Greyjoy what he suspected. _Your best friend might not be dead, though you may want to get better at this before you meet him again, he's been rather busy killing people these past few years. By the way, do you know anything about the Winter Soldier, by any chance?_ No, Greyjoy would probably decide to try him for a target, and there was a possibility that he wouldn't miss, not if Tyrion brought up his theory. "I wanted to ask," he said, instead, "what would you say if you could, somehow, speak to Robb Stark again?"

The arrow flew, and hit the center of the target. Greyjoy turned, slow and deliberate, and Tyrion noted that he'd tensed. "If I don't want to tell you?" he asked.

"Then nothing will happen of it, and you can forget I was ever here," Tyrion replied. Greyjoy seemed to consider it, then trudged over to the target to start pulling the arrows out. "I take it that's a no, then."

"You take it right," Greyjoy said, simply, and very pointedly not looking at him as he tugged out the arrows. Tyrion sighed. _I should've known,_ he thought, and kept his theory to himself as he turned to walk away, uncovering his flask of ale to take a last swig from it. Greyjoy had been Robb Stark's closest companion, he wouldn't have taken Tyrion's theory well.

Behind him, he heard a quiet, "I'm sorry."

He turned. "What?"

"You asked," Greyjoy said, still pulling out arrows. "That's what I would say, if I had a chance." Tyrion saw his shoulders shake, just a little. "You're not getting anything else out of me, Lannister."

"I wasn't even expecting that much, if we're being honest," Tyrion said. _You may not get the chance to apologize,_ he thought grimly as he walked away. _Not if what I suspect is true._

\--

The Imp's words haunted Theon, after the dwarf himself had left. _What would you say if you could speak to Robb Stark again?_

He hadn't given Lannister everything. He was no fool, to give away all his secrets to Tyrion Lannister, and especially not the ones about Robb. _I'm sorry. Gods, I'm sorry. When I swore I was your brother I meant it, I meant every word I said to you, and if I could go back I'd prove them true. I should've died with you._ He stopped, closed his eyes, and breathed in and out. Robb was dead, had been for years, and gods knew what had been going on in Lannister's mind, for the Imp to bring him up now.

He pulled out the last arrow from the wall it had gone into. Lannister was right, he'd gotten rusty, and his missing fingers were cramping faintly now. He didn't think the phantom pain would ever fade, not entirely, but at least now it wasn't so bad. And if he practiced more often than he already was, he'd hit the center near as often as he used to.

"Shooting again?" someone asked, and Theon turned to see Asha, leaning against the rack. "It's bloody cold up here," she remarked. "I don't know how you can stand it."

"Asha," he greeted her, feeling his mouth twitch upwards in a small smile. Here was someone he was more comfortable with than the Imp, at least. "I'm used to it," he said.

"Of course you're used to it." She eyed the arrow in his hand, the bow in the other, and said, "How's your aim?"

"Getting better," he said. He'd hit the center once, at least. "I'm not shooting ravens down any time soon, though."

"Good to hear that." She straightened up, and the casual demeanor had melted away. She looked troubled now, and Theon walked over to the weapons rack, putting away the bow and arrows. "Do you remember when the Damphair died?" she asked, at last. "And Uncle Rodrik, as well?"

Theon paused. "I remember that," he said. _What is she getting at?_

"Someone near crushed the Damphair's throat," Asha continued, "and then put a knife through Rodrik Harlaw's heart." She sighed, looking away. "I never told you this, but I caught a glimpse of the man who killed them." She huffed out a bitter laugh. "Do you know anything about the Winter Soldier?"

"He's a story," Theon said. "That's all I know. Either he's a wizard, a wight, or even winter itself, given human form and a metal arm. Why?"

"He's real," Asha said, simply.

Theon stared at her, opened his mouth, thought better of it, and shut it. "And you're sure of that?" he asked.

"I saw a man with a metal arm and a mask fleeing just before I found Uncle Rodrik's body," she said, turning to him, her tone serious. "And now Jon Stark claims the Soldier is responsible for the massacre at the Whispering Woods, and it seems the same man shot Arya Stark just a while back."

"Why didn't you say anything about that?" he asked.

"Would you have believed me?"

He hesitated. No, he wouldn't have believed her--he had trouble even believing her now, even with what she said. "No," he said, finally.

"I thought so," she said, then paused. "Are you all right here?" she asked, and Theon felt grateful for the more familiar ground to stand on.

"I'm fine," he answered, and didn't mention that a week before he'd had to excuse himself to his room in order to breathe, to remember his name. That hadn't been much of a good day, but he was--better now, at least. He knew his name, most days, knew where he was and where he stood. "It's better than--well. You saw."

"And how sad is it," Asha mused, "that all I can do is agree?" She smiled, sadly. "If you ever want to return to Pyke, let me know. I'll make the arrangements."

He let out a breath, and thought of the last time he'd gone back to Pyke, to talk to their mother for the last time before her death. _Oh, Theon,_ she'd sighed, in one of her rare lucid moments, her eyes full of sadness, her hand brushing against his cheek. _What did they do to you?_ He hadn't told her, had only said that it wasn't the Starks that hurt him. "Not today," he said, as he always did. "Jeyne?"

"She and Tris are getting along splendidly," Asha replied, and Theon hoped that Tris knew to treat her well, to remind her of her name every so often. "She's well, Theon. She says she wants to see you and Sansa more often, of course, but other than that she's doing surprisingly well." She crossed her arms across her chest, opened her mouth as if to say something else, but then someone called, "Asha!"

Theon turned with her, to see Arya Stark striding into the archery range, her direwolf Nymeria behind her. She moved like a wolf stalking its prey, her grey eyes taking in every detail, narrowing at him for a moment.

"Theon," she greeted him.

"Arya," he said, and earned a little upward twitch of the lips in response. "I heard about the Soldier." He saw her go still, lips pressing into a thin line before her gaze flicked to Asha, who nodded. Arya then looked back at him once more, her face blank and emotionless.

"Do you believe it was him?" she asked, her tone neutral. Theon sucked in a breath, felt a phantom pain shoot through his missing fingers.

"I'm not sure," he said, carefully.

Arya, in reply, yanked her shirt up, just enough for Theon to see the scar on her stomach. It was an angry puckered red, in stark contrast to Arya's slightly tanned skin from years in Braavos, and Theon wondered if the man who shot her, this Winter Soldier (and he couldn't believe that he was even thinking that, now, though the proof of the Soldier's existence was staring him right in the face), had shot to kill at all. He might've left her to bleed out, surely, but that seemed to go against the image of a cold and efficient killer built up by snatches of rumor Theon had heard of him.

She pulled her shirt back down, and said, "Do you believe us now?"

"More than I did a few minutes ago," Theon said, glancing to Asha, whose mouth twitched upwards just a little in an amused smirk. _Told you so,_ he could imagine her saying. "Did you see his face?"

Arya rolled her eyes. "Of course not, you stupid," she said. "He was wearing a _mask_. But I remember his eyes were blue--it was too dark to make out much more than that."

"He moved too fast for me to see much beyond the arm," Asha put in, "but I remember he had his hair tied back, and in the light it looked as red as blood." Theon glanced to Arya, whose brow had furrowed. Red hair, blue eyes--it couldn't be. _Could it?_ The dead had risen before, but--no, the Imp's question about Robb had dragged up old memories, reopened old wounds. That was all.

But the thought still remained, whispering _what if_ in the back of his mind. _Robb Stark is dead,_ Ramsay Snow had said, smiling all the while, but what if--

"Theon?" Asha asked, and Theon snapped back to reality. Arya had narrowed her eyes at him, having hopped up to perch on a nearby table, and Asha's hand had inched close to his, as if about to take it. "All right there?"

"I'm fine," he said, "just--thinking." It couldn't have been, anyway. Robb had been dead for years, after all, and there were plenty of people with red hair and blue eyes. _It couldn't have been._ "So is he a wizard or something more than human, like the rumors say? From what I recall, no one even heard the Damphair or Rodrik scream."

Arya shook her head. "Only a man," she said, "but he's good at what he does." She waved her left hand as well. "And if there's one thing the rumors got right, it's his arm. I'd recognize Valyrian steel anywhere."

"Would that it made him easier to see," Asha remarked. "But then you don't build up a reputation like his if you're seen now, do you?" Her eyes slid to Theon for a moment, a hint of concern behind them. He hadn't gotten off as easy as he thought, then. "There's another thing the rumors said true--he's a ghost."

_But whose ghost?_ was the question that hung in the air, unanswered.

Theon wasn't certain if he wanted to know the answer.

\--

Night fell, and Jon dreamed.

He was in the forest again, chasing after the Soldier, bow and arrow in hand. Leaves crunched under his feet, the wind blew through his hair, and he jumped over a root protruding from the ground. _Notch, draw, loose_ , and the arrow flew. The Soldier turned, his metal arm gleaming in the sunlight--

"Farewell, Snow," Robb said, his eyes a bright blue, snowflakes melting in his red curls. The Soldier was gone now, and his dead brother stood before him, the way he looked when Jon had seen him for the last time before leaving Winterfell. The arrow embedded itself in his chest, before Jon could speak or move, and he fell forward with nary a word.

Jon rushed forward, dropping the bow, but then he felt a cold hand land on his shoulder, heard a whispered _remember your brother_ , and spun around--

\--and woke, to Ghost nudging his shoulder. "I'm awake, I'm awake," he grumbled, pushing the silent wolf's wet nose away. The fire had gone out some time ago, and the only light now came from the stars and the moon. _Night falls, and now my watch begins._ His hand drifted over Longclaw's hilt, and he found himself glancing around his surroundings out of old habit. He glanced at Ghost, who sniffed the air for a moment before curling up to sleep, and sighed.

"At least one of us will sleep tonight," he said, relaxing a little. Ghost wouldn't have gone to sleep so readily if there was any danger around, would've been restless and on edge. Jon scratched the white wolf behind his ears, then let out a breath and looked up at the sky. It would still be dark for a while yet, but he couldn't fall back asleep. Not with the dream still fresh in his mind. _Just a dream,_ he told himself, _nothing more,_ yet he found himself watching the woods for a flash of Valyrian steel.

He flexed his burned hand out of habit, then settled it on Longclaw's hilt.

He was a two-day ride away from Winterfell, alone save for his horse and for Ghost. The Winter Soldier was still out there, doing gods knew what, Jon couldn't sleep, and his thoughts kept circling back to the Blackfish's words, to the Soldier's dead eyes, to his dream. It was going to be a long night, he figured.

_And now my watch begins._


End file.
